


In Death, Sacrifice

by AurelliaCresswell



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Magical Bond, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurelliaCresswell/pseuds/AurelliaCresswell
Summary: History between two of Thedas' most powerful apostates threaten to rend the world greater than any Breach ever could.
Relationships: Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Morrigan & Solas (Dragon Age)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	In Death, Sacrifice

It was well after nightfall when the trumpets sounded, the accompanying creak of the drawbridge seeming to rattle the entire castle with its own triumphant herald. It seemed to travel through the stone itself, excitedly transfering it from one to the next, and so on, until the entire keep rang with the wordless announcement. The raucous would be enough to rouse everyone who was not yet fast asleep; which was to say, nearly everyone currently at Skyhold.  
  
The fatigue that hovered around eyes so unlike hers, dissipated like fog as Morrigan watched. She sighed as she saw her son sit straight up, the excitement manifesting before he could contain himself. "The Inquisitor is back," Kieran said, voice low in the dim light, as if telling her a grand secret. He'd left words unspoken, not that it was necessary for them to be uttered aloud. Her eyes flashed for a moment, then turned away, reigning in the emotion that threatened.  
  
"Yes." Both of them knew it was not the Inquisitor that threatened the quiet calm of their rooms. "Sleep, Kieran. Once he has had a chance to rest himself, I cannot see why your lessons should not resume."

"But Mother," he said softly, eyes that reminded her of his father's boring into her with a familiar, vexing persistence. "He said he would bring back something for me! Can't I-"  
  
"That can and most assuredly will wait until morning, my darling," she stated, her tone kind, but firm. She saw him deflate and felt instant guilt. How she hated to be the one to bring about such an expression. But, he seemed to accept her decision without further incident. Such a good boy he was, she thought, smiling as he pulled the furs up around his neck and snuggled in for sleep.  
  
Truthfully, she was unsure how two strikingly disagreeable people had created such a well-mannered lad as he. The vitriol they had hurled at one another over the years in the form of insults had rivaled even the poison of the Blight. But from that mess, they had created perfection. Even on her most miserable days, she could relish in the fact that she had succeeded in something that Flemeth never could: maternal love. With a kiss to his head, she retreated to her small desk to set about finishing some potions, and delving into ancient elvhen sigils and their meanings.  
  
Kieran had been deeply slumbering for not yet an hour when a knock came upon her door. Crouched over the little apothecary station she'd erected in the front of the room, Morrigan had fallen asleep while grinding dried prophet's laurel leaves into powder. At the sound, she jerked sharply, her hand threatening to overturn the stone mortar and pestle as she righted herself. Her back ached from the prolonged position awkwardly forced upon it, but she held back the groan of discomfort as she stood and crossed to the door.  
  
Opening it, she glared daggers at the fool on the other side, and found herself looking into the eyes of the bard-turned-spymaster. It was still difficult to regard the woman as anything but the bumbling chantry sister who fawned over Andraste's Grace and frilly shoes. Physically, she was nearly the same, but the hardened Orlesian in front of her bore little resemblance in the way of temperament to the woman she'd once known. Idly, Morrigan wondered how she herself must appear to her now. Did Leliana hold the same memories of their days traveling Ferelden, tainted with a bittersweet lens?  
  
The glare turned suspicious as the women regarded one another fully. They had yet to truly speak since her arrival to Skyhold, Morrigan realized, and something told her that Leliana had not come now for a friendly chat. What could bring her here at such a time?  
  
The witch was the first to break the silence. "Spare me your incessant knocking, if you would. Despite the noise of your Herald's arrival, my son yet sleeps." She poked her head back behind her to make sure that was still true, then stepped outside and closed the door, so that they might speak without fear of rousing him. Crossing her arms over her chest, Morrigan studied the former bard. Nowhere in the somber woman before her was there even a hint of the young cloister sister from Lothering. There remained only the Nightengale, the leader of assassins for the Inquisition, deployed to handle the most unsavory tasks necessary for a powerful ruling organization. Morrigan lifted her chin beneath Leliana's cold gaze. "What do you want?"  
  
"I have been sent to fetch you," she said simply. As if that was all the information the witch required. Morrigan lifted an eyebrow, but did not move, her meaning clear. An exasperated sigh, followed by a curse in whispered Orlesian, left the redhead's mouth. "They did not tell me much. The Inquisitor is in dire need of assistance. Please, come now."

In the span of a moment, Morrigan watched the demeanor shift in the woman she once knew, and recognized what she saw. It was something she had seen the rogue display once before, so long ago, as their campfire burned in the lonely Ferelden countryside. It was the eve before the battle of Denerim, the single battle that would determine the outcome of the Fifth Blight.  
  
Fear. Leliana was afraid.  
  
"Who asked for me?" she tried, her final attempt at resistance, weak though it was.  
  
Leliana turned colder once more, the question obviously setting something off within her. "Do you really not know?"  
  
Checking one last time on Kieran, the witch sighed, then followed through the winding halls of Skyhold until they reached the corridor to the Inquisitor's chambers. As they entered, she spared a thought for the lavish surroundings, the sumptuous red velvet and polished silver fixtures. Such opulence wasted on a creature who would rather frolic through the forest. However, her unkind musings were banished as she saw the collection of bodies surrounding the Inquisitor's bed.  
  
They parted for her as she approached, the large-horned Qunari, and the bearded, bear-like human. When she saw what was on the bed, a discomfort the likes of which she could scarcely recall feeling crept into her body, entertwining with her nervous system, and causing her hands to tremble lightly. Whether it was the actual tableau before her, or what it could mean for the future, Morrigan was unsure, and equally unwilling to dwell on it long enough to discover.  
  
The Inquisitor looked for all the world like a child, piled beneath blankets and propped up on pillows, probably to keep the rattling cough that she could hear from stagnating in her lungs. The tips of her pointed ears were an unhealthy, sallow grey, her skin bleached of all its usual sun-kissed warmth. She was pale and nearly lifeless beneath the covers, but for the gasping breath that barely lifted her chest.

Next to her on the bed, Solas leaned close, his presence seeming to swallow the diminutive form of the unconscious woman. He looked, thought she, to be overly protective. She wondered if he even knew he was giving the tell away. Likely not. He appeared deeply concentrated, his hands glowing as healing energy flowed from them and into the body of the Inquisitor. It seemed to have a momentary effect; Lavellan's skin would pinken just so, but would then immediately snap back into the colorless shade of white. The shade of death.  
  
The Inquisitor was dying.  
  
"I see why you have brought me here," she said lowly, the acerbic tone for now muted, "though I am hardly a healer. What have you tried?"  
  
"Potions of elfroot and embrium," the exhausted tones of the other apostate offered. "Any healing herb I could think of. We were already nearing Skyhold when she fell ill, or we could have turned back and sought the help of Stone Bear Hold."  
  
Her mind, tired and shocked as it was, filled in the rest. "You were hoping I was familiar enough with Avvar illnesses to be of assistance." His answering head movement was barely a nod. It was clear he had exhausted himself attempting to keep the Inquisitor alive long enough to make it back.   
  
Spite, black and poisonous, curled from the pit of her belly, starting low and climbing upwards like thorned vines. _Let her die,_ a voice said, its hissing somehow comforting against the shell of her ear. _She has taken that which was yours, and deserves the death that awaits._  
  
But a twitch of the Inquisitor's left hand showed the green fissure glowing, casting an emerald sheen against the faces of those gathered. She thought of Kieran, thought of the sky being ripped open again if they were unable to stop Corypheus, and sighed sufferingly as her course of action was made all but clear to her.  
  
Her fantasies of revenge would have to wait another day.  
  
"Can you help her?" asked one of the others; the dwarf, by the sound and vector of the voice.   
  
"I do not yet know," she answered truthfully. "But I will try."  
  
Directing Dorian to retrieve a few alchemical ingredients -and threatening to dismember him if he woke up Kieran in the process- she then turned to the others gathered. "'Tis far too crowded in here to cast anything that requires any level of concentration. You must leave."  
  
No one moved for long heartbeats, until a clearly unhappy Cullen grudgingly retreated to the door. Slowly, the others seemed to follow suit, trickling out and throwing her worried and suspicious looks in equal measure. _Please, at your leisure. 'Tis not as if time is of the essence._  
  
Predictably, there was one who refused to vacate his seat near the head of the bed. He sighed heavily, the exhaustion a palpable, physical thing as it settled in the lines around his eyes and mouth, slumping his shoulders. "Do not presume to ask me to leave, witch," he said, his typical sonorous voice rough with fatigue.  
  
"I do not wish you to leave, dog," she replied in the same tone, not even sparing a glance as she went about pulling the corners of the blankets down far enough to expose the chest of the ailing woman. How many times would she be expected to save the heroes of Thedas? How many times could she, before Fate refused her efforts?  
  
Dorian returned and deposited the requested items, then he too was sent to wait with the others. With deft and practiced fingers, Morrigan unrolled a rabbitskin that contained a number of alchemical ingrediants, a bottle filled with honeyed water, incense, and a small bowl.  
  
"Tell me all that happened," she said, her fingers beginning to combine ingredients on instinct alone. She listened intently as Solas retold the tale of their efforts in the Frostback Basin, causing no sound other than the slight busy-noise of potion crafting. When he mentioned a dragon, she barely batted an eye. It was when he mentioned Hakkon that she halted her hands and glanced up at him.  
  
"She fought a dragon possessed by the spirit of an ancient Avvar god?"  
  
"Yes," he answered. "We all did. Though she seemed to be bothered excessively by the cold, even before we approached."  
  
Reaching out with her magic, Morrigan pressed past the aura of Solas, and sought that of Lavellan, feeling the edges of her essence fraying and turning colorless. Where once she had been a vibrant and verdant green, she was now wilting like a flower. With a gasp, the witch recoiled, then redoubled her efforts to finish the potion before they were too late to be of any use.  
  
By the time she had completed, the Inquisitor's chest barely moved, her lips cold and tinged in blue. Morrigan gazed at Solas grimly. "Have you the strength necessary to continue your healing spell? You will need to do so until you cannot cast any longer, and possibly yet still after that."  
  
He visibly fortified himself, then nodded. Wordlessly, Morrigan took the mixture she'd made, spooned half of it into the bottle of water and honey, and swirled it vigorously. The remainder, she gathered on the same spoon, and pressed it to the Inquisitor's lips, helping to ease it down her throat until it was gone.  
  
"I truly hope you know what you are doing," he said as he watched her. Morrigan huffed at his ungrateful quip, and could not help but rub his face in the current situation.  
  
"She is dead if I do nothing. I do not promise to save her life, merely that I will endeavor to do so."  
  
With no further comment, she directed him to begin his casting. Healing blue light filled the space once more, and Morrigan swallowed the honeyed potion in one drink, feeling the way it burned immediately. Recalling the particular glyphs used for this spell, she closed her eyes and imagined them in her mind, imagined her fingers tracing them over and over again until they formed in the open air before her. The glyphs glowed purple, pulsing with a sharp energy that only grew brighter with every new stroke of her mind's hands, until the room was washed out completely in light.  
  
When the light finally bled away from the Inquisitor's chambers, all was quiet. Two pairs of eyes sought the still figure on the bed, searching to find any discernable changes. The blue kiss had left the Inquisitor's lips, and high upon her fine cheekbones, a flush began to spread, a sign of the life that yet dwelled within. Success, then. The world yet had a chance at survival.  
  
"You did it." The surprise that colored his tone would have been offensive, had she not felt so utterly exhausted. "What was that spell? I did not recognize the pattern."  
  
"You wouldn't," she quipped, rummaging through the satchel at her side for a slender vial and downing the contents with a grimace. Her forehead smoothed after that, whatever had been ailing her momentarily soothed. "'Tis a Chasind spell. I thought it only fitting." In reality, had the spell not worked, she would have been out of ideas. They would have had to face Corypheus alone.  
  
"Chasind? Then they have seen her ailment before."  
  
The room spun uneasily. Morrigan leaned against the post at the foot of the bed, trying to focus on Solas's words- it was rare she was provided the opportunity to teach him something he didn't seem to already know, what with his countless travels to the Fade.  
  
"They created it. When the Chasind and the Avvar were yet united under the Alamarri, they developed terrible spirit magics to attack slowly. They would cast the spell, and fuel it with their own life, which had to be struck down by the intended. It was not blood magic in the way we are familiar; rather, a covenant made with spirits of the Fade who would do their bidding once the caster fulfilled their obligation."  
  
"I very much doubt this type of spell is used now among the Avvar."  
  
"No," she agreed. "Not even the Chasind use it anymore. Its only practitioners would be, t'would seem, the Jaws of Hakkon."  
  
"Why would my healing spells not work against it? I cleansed the surrounding area several times to dispel any lingering malignancies, yet it simply would not break through."  
  
"The spirits alter the aura of the victim so as to be resistant to healing magics. Unless you know what to look for, such a thing is almost impossible to discover. Your efforts helped to slow the effects, but only just. Still, 'tis likely why she survived long enough to return to Skyhold."  
  
Solas seemed to ponder this for a few moments, his eyes resting on the noticeably healthier elf. She seemed to breathe far more easily now, and even stirred slightly to shift her position. His shrewd gaze moved back towards the human woman, appraising and suspicious. "If it was resistant to healing magics, how were you able to cure her? What are you refusing to say?"  
  
She huffed a small snort of amusement, even as the chills started to prickle her skin, and she shivered violently. When she moved her gaze to his with some difficulty, he noticed her eyes had bled away to a pale gold, her skin turning ashen nearly before his eyes. "Simple," she rasped, unable to suppress the sudden rattle from deep within her chest. "T'was not a healing spell that I used."


End file.
